


the air tastes different

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, the power of some good old-fashioned tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 03:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14440485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: Mitch can't cry after Game 7.(Consider this a coda to the Leafs/Bruins series.)





	the air tastes different

**Author's Note:**

> if you or someone you know is mentioned in the tags, please leave!!! this is not for your eyes!!! 
> 
> the leafs lost and then i cried for a while and then i wrote this and now i'm posting it here. it made me feel better to write so hopefully it makes you feel better to read <3

Mitch can’t cry after Game 7.

Everyone else is. Not, like, openly weeping, or anything, but still, most of the guys have a few tears in the corners of their eyes, and everyone’s kind of avoiding each other because of it. There’s an informal barrier around Jake, unofficially enforced by Mo, and Kappy’s looking on as Zach runs a hand down Willy’s back. He’s trying to hide his face, but Mitch can hear the ugly sobs coming from his locker.

Even Auston’s eyes are shiny.

Mitch mostly just feels numb.

 

He heads out as soon as he can; he can’t remember who does media, but he really can’t stand to be around reporters. Mitch is a Toronto boy, he knows that this is the worst time to play for this team. They’re probably tearing them apart on Twitter already— Jake, obviously, and Willy too, and definitely Auston.

Mitch led the team is scoring for the series, he’s probably gonna be safe from the worst of it, but the problem with Auston isn’t that he didn’t play well. He just— he had a quiet stretch, compared to how he usually plays, and now they’re talking about how he "underperformed" and subsequently let the team down, or something.

Which is stupid, because it takes more than one person to win a hockey game, and it certainly takes more than one person to lose it.

And like, Mitch knows that in the morning, he’ll stop feeling like they let people down, because at least they pushed it to Game 7, and at least they didn’t let a miracle slip through their fingers, but—

 _He’s_ let down, he thinks. With himself, with the team, with a series that’s probably already being dissected by a billion idiots who don’t know shit and will forget everything they did right, which is fair, but also, Mitch hates that they at least have the option to look on the bright side, and instead, they’re focusing on tearing his team down.

Especially Auston.

On any other night, and after any other loss, Mitch would be there, making sure he’s not on his phone and offering words of reassurance.

Tonight, he can’t.

Maybe this is his version of crying.

 

Mostly, Mitch hides out by the bus and hopes no one will approach him. He puts his phone in airplane mode and puts his headphones on, and he doesn’t look up from Candy Crush for a while. It’s weirdly soothing, honestly; like, they lost a playoff game, and the season is over, but he’s still on the same level now as he was this morning as he was three days ago. It’s grounding, or something.

It’s a hard level, too, and he gets pretty into it, so he doesn’t look up until someone’s kicking at his feet.

He looks up, expecting Auston, but instead it’s Patty, his usual look of mild concern replaced by one of intense concern.

“Are we heading out soon?” Mitch asks.

Patty shakes his head. “Everyone’s still trickling out.”

“Alright,” Mitch says. “Don’t let them head out without me.”

Patty cracks a smile. “I’m pretty sure they’re not gonna forget you here.”

“Someone would probably Photoshop my face onto the _Home Alone_ poster, if they did,” Mitch says, and then he does a halfhearted imitation of Macaulay Culkin’s face, which earns him a chuckle.

“Of all the things the internet could do right now, that seems pretty tame,” Patty says. “So, how’re you holding up?”

“Better than some of the guys,” Mitch says honestly.

“That doesn’t mean you’re okay,” Patty says.

Mitch shrugs. “It sucks.”

“Yeah,” Patty says. “Auston’s worried about you.”

“I’m fine, he should worry about himself.”

“He’s doing plenty of that, too,” Patty says. “I deleted Twitter from his phone, I think, so he should be fine.”

“You think?”

“Well— I pressed the button to delete it, but I don’t know. The Cloud could still have it, or something.”

Mitch shakes his head, more fond than anything else. “I think deleting it will be fine for now.”

“You’re not looking things up, right?” Patty says.

Mitch rolls his eyes. “You know I know better, man.”

“People make bad choices when they’re sad,” Patty says.

“I’m not even sad,” Mitch says honestly. “It’s more—” he furrows his brow. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe it hasn’t really sunk in yet,” Patty suggests.

And that’s not quite right, because Mitch feels sick when he thinks about the fact that they’re going back to Toronto with their heads hung low, but he still doesn’t think it’s sadness, because he feels more like he’s gonna puke than like he’s gonna cry.

But all Mitch says is, “Maybe,” then goes back to his phone. It’s maybe a little rude, but he’s not in the mood to talk, right now.

 

* * *

 

He’s on the plane when the tears finally come.

It’s a little bit of a relief; like, the awfulness is complicated and big and the disappointment weighs on him heavier than anything ever has before, but the undercurrent of sadness is still there, and the simple fact that they lost when they could’ve won is still the worst part of this.

And also he’s still himself, and he still cares, and maybe he’s really fucking sad right now, but he knows how to be sad. A numb sense of loss feels endless, but this is the kind of sadness where, afterwards, you can feel yourself feeling better.

Crying sucks. It’s wet and ugly and embarrassing and it makes you feel helpless, but eventually, you stop crying, and afterwards, you usually feel better.

So, Mitch makes his way to the bathroom, and then he lets it all out, ugly, choked sobs reverberating loudly in the too-small room. He hopes no one can hear him, but he figures most of the guys are asleep, and the ones who aren’t will probably politely avoid eye contact when he makes his way back to his seat.

By the time he’s done, his eyes are puffy and his voice is hoarse, but he feels something like better, he thinks.

He’d sat alone on the bus and again on the plane, because Auston had been playing cards with Patty and Mitch hadn’t been in the mood to join.

Now, the lights are off, most of the guys have headphones in, and Mitch can see an empty seat next to Auston.

Wordlessly, he claims it.

Auston kind of startles when he does, like he’d been half asleep, but he pulls out an earbud. “Hey,” he says, quiet enough against the ambient noise of the plane that only Mitch can hear it.  

“Hi,” Mitch says. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

Auston stares at him for a beat, and then he nods, his face weirdly inscrutable. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks,” Mitch says.

After a second’s hesitation, Auston says, “I was, uh, worried about you earlier.”

“I know,” Mitch says, giving Auston a small smile. “You didn’t have to send Patty after me, by the way.”

“You don’t ask for space that much,” Auston says. “I figured that you really needed to be alone, or—” he shrugs. “I thought it was better than tracking you down myself, I guess.”

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” Mitch says.

“I’m sorry if you needed me to find you,” Auston says.

Mitch isn’t really sure if that would’ve been helpful or not, but it doesn’t matter right now, so he leans against him, just enough to press their arms together. “How are you?”

“I’ve… been better,” Auston says. “I think we all have.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I was totally crying in the bathroom before.”

“Aw,” Auston says, smiling a little bit, and he presses a soft kiss to Mitch’s head, more automatic than anything else. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I think so,” Mitch says. “Mostly just tired.”

Auston shifts, then puts an arm around Mitch. “This good?”

Mitch nods, and leans his head on Auston’s shoulder. “Very.”

“Good,” Auston says, and Mitch doesn’t need to look up to see that he’s smiling. “I’ve been trying to fall asleep since we took off.”

“Things will probably be better in the morning,” Mitch says.

Auston hums in agreement. “A nap is probably a good start.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says, his eyes falling shut. “I think I’m gonna take one of those.”

“I think I’m gonna join you,” Auston says.

Mitch feels warm, suddenly, too exhausted to let the pain of losing piece the bubble of comfort he’s in right now. “Come back to mine tonight?”

“Of course,” Auston says, his voice sounding sleepy. “I was gonna ask once we touched down.”

It’s a strange relief to hear that; Mitch feels better about everything knowing that Auston will ask for comfort if he needs it, even if Mitch wants space. It’s tricky, but Mitch likes being able to choose when to put Auston’s needs ahead of his own, and he likes that it’s a decision they make together.

“Love you,” Mitch says to Auston, for what’s probably the billionth time. They say it all the time, as a greeting, a farewell, a thanks, a reassurance, even occasionally as a chirp; it’s a handy phrase, one they use to punctuate the dialogue of their relationship, but it’s also incredibly true. Mitch doesn’t see the harm in saying it over and over and over, so long as he likes hearing it.

“Love you too,” Auston says.

It’s another one of those grounding things, Mitch thinks.


End file.
